“C’era una gallina, di domenica. Ancora viva perché non erano ancora le nove del mattino.”/ “There was a hen, on Sunday. Still alive because it wasn’t nine o’clock in the morning yet.”

Clarice Lispector

Improntata nell’isolamento, diserta
raramente contrita, addolorata
vasta quanto il gusto per la fame
cammina odora nutre, annaspa.

Invasa dagli umori universali, accoglie
stranamente angusta, oppressa
gioiosa quanto il pianto successivo
respira mangia conquista, soccombe.

Ingravidata dal futuro quotidiano, invoca
falsamente inutile, abbandonata
rotta quanto la chimera dell’indigente
beve rigurgita discorre, perturba.

Ingioiellata da guasti saperi, trafigge
realmente ferita, resuscitata
piegata quanto la carne del giunco
lecca gusta ripete, trasale.

Ingannata da ancestrali rintocchi, offre
possibilmente colpita, insaziata
sanata quanto la piaga dell’avere
scrive riversa sanguina, comprende.

Innalzata nell’assenza del tocco, vive
sicuramente sfiorata, sollevata
sorpresa quanto chi l’ha usurpata
colora morde canta, rifiorisce.

Roma, quando l’autunno profuma di primavera. 2012 -Maria A. Listur

 

 

 

“There was a hen, on Sunday. Still alive because it wasn’t nine o’clock in the morning yet.”
Clarice Lispector

Characterized in isolation, she deserts
rarely contrite, afflicted
vast as much as the taste for hunger
she walks she scents she nourishes, she fondles.

Invaded by universal humors, she hails
strangely narrowed, oppressed
as much joyful as the next cry
she breathes eats conquers, succumbs.

Pregnant by the daily future, she invokes
falsely useless, abandoned
as much broken as the chimera of the indulgent
She drinks vomits talks, perturbs.

Bejeweled by rotten knowledge, she transfixes
truly wounded, resurrected
as much bended as the flesh of the bulrush
She licks tastes repeats, flinches.

Deceived by ancestral tolls, she offers
possibly stricken, unsatisfied
as much healed as the plague of possession
she writes pours bleeds, understands.

Heightened in the absence of the touch, she lives
surely grazed, lifted
as much surprised as who usurped her
she colors bites sings, flourishes again.

Rome, when autumn scents of spring. 2012 -Maria A. Listur

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